You (me), at the junction. Not the
junction, a junction, this one here.

You might have a map
or not. There may just be

a broad field of tall grasses
with distant powerlines

semi-quavered with starlings,
the dawn sun burning

through Norfolk mist, leaving you
plenty of time to walk.

You may have an idea, a hunch,
your instinct. But here

you may see a narrow trail in the grass
tamped more than once, it seems,

going where you think you mean to go,
and so you do, you go, you follow.

Who made that track, you trust—
without cause, because of course

they then are not you now, their day
shaped differently, no plane to catch,

no son to wake and pack into the rental
and drive hours to Heathrow.

Someone has left clues but without
anyone in mind, never mind

you. They must know this field, their own
shortcuts and destinations, know

too much or not enough. You though,
you must wayfind for yourself.

After all, this is your last chance
to explore, follow your nose

in the foreign landscape.
You keep moving and at each

revelation (a crossing path,
an unexpected road, the sun

suddenly at the wrong angle)
you pivot toward likelihood,

strike out at a tangent
into the swaying grass,

toward the copse of willows
where the stream should be,

and behind which should be
the steeple above the room where your son still sleeps.


for Nick